


Tempting me into the garden.

by Kaesteranya



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secret agendas and business timez.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempting me into the garden.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for iWHORE 2009. The title is taken from the 31 Days theme for October 15, 2009. This one’s set sometime in the future – the future that comes out as a result of the Vongola Family fixing this shit in the TYL Arc, anyway.
> 
> In my head canon, Namimori Shrine and the compound within it is owned by the Foundation – definitely Hibari Kyouya territory, and the only part of his base that’s visible aboveground to those who happen to be looking. Oh, and he’s got funky yakuza tattoos.

“We are here today,” he says, “to discuss your total failure.”

 

It’s quiet now, the kind of quiet that you get in graveyards after midnight or in bars/warehouses/casinos after you’ve killed everyone in it. The room you’re in, it’s a nice place, all Japanese and pretty in the sparse sort of way. You’re over at the west wall, with your back against a mural full of rolling clouds, mountains and gods; your father’s sword is resting on your shoulder. They’re in the center, been kneeling there since morning – you wonder, idly, if any one of them’s had to take a piss for hours but he’s too chicken to excuse himself. Hibari Kyouya, full-time head of the Foundation, sometimes Cloud Guardian of the Vongola – he’s in front of them, all gray and black and pale. Only a guy like him could make something like the tea ceremony seem deadly.

 

“You were selected for a reason,” he says. “The job required skill and a certain amount of discretion. Selecting the lot of you was apparently an exercise in futility.”

 

You could marvel at the fact that he isn’t saying much and doesn’t sound any different from the way he usually does, but he manages to seem like the scariest, craziest motherfucker on the face of the Earth. You could amuse yourself, as well, with the realization that this is the most number of words you’ve heard Hibari say in the past few months. What you’re noticing instead are the droplets of shower water still clinging to his hair, occasionally dripping down to the nape of his neck or the fabric of his clothes. What you’re thinking about is the play of light in his eyes, the curl of his lips. What you’re looking at are his hands, the small collection of brisk and controlled movements he’s making, and the occasional glimpse of slender wrists from behind his sleeves, of the pale chest beneath the folds of his kimono, or the painted skin of his shoulders, his neck.

 

“I am not merciful. There will be no second chances.”

 

You’re watching him in his element, talking business and fixing tea, and you’re not afraid, only dwelling on the fact that he’s so much sin wrapped up in that kimono of his, and you know what no one else knows – what he looks like when he’s sprawled over the sheets, the sounds he makes when you’re fucking him.

 

“Once you step out of this room, you are to leave the compound and never come back… find another master, if you wish. Should you reveal anything about us, however, anything at all, I will hunt each one of you down personally.”

 

He goes on in that same quiet voice he’s been using since this whole thing started, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s describing, in detail, exactly how he plans on executing traitors in the most painful ways imaginable, you’d think he was rattling off the items on a shopping list. He’s got a very vivid imagination for a guy who used to go around, smacking people with his tonfa and treating his hometown like a safari full of game. Until today, you didn’t know that there was more than one way to break a man’s fingers.

 

Until today, you didn’t know that you could get off on the topic of murder.

 

“Drink.”

 

No one speaks. Everyone follows. You spent the next thirty minutes of lethal quiet cleaning your sword.

 

“Dismissed.”

 

Kusakabe steps up the moment the crowd’s fled like bats out of hell, but Hibari’s fending him off with an irritated wave of his hand. He’s standing, walking towards you – you can pick out the sound of his feet on _tatami_ mats from a million miles away. One heartbeat, and the sword’s out of your hands and he’s straddling your hips with his legs, hands on either side of your face, kissing your mouth.

 

“What brought this on?” you ask, once you’ve broken apart. His lips are breathing just over yours, sharing your air.

 

“I hate it,” he replies, “when you watch me.”

 

You laugh and reach down between your bodies, tugging at his obi. It comes off easy, in a rasp of silk and cotton.

 

Kusakabe quietly shuts the door behind him.


End file.
